Moon Squadron (13 page)

The contents of these containers were many and various.
Wireless sets and Sten guns were sent regularly. But there were more esoteric items, some of them seemingly not for military purposes, some of them even animate.

Boots and socks were dropped in great quantity. They were ordinary British army boots and much coveted by the Maquis. If the wearer were to be challenge
d, the explanation was simple; he had taken them from a British soldier after Dunkirk. Soap was almost unobtainable in the occupied countries; so was chocolate; needles were in acutely short supply and so were cigarettes. All these went into the containers. British agents did most of their travelling by bicycle and rapidly wore out their tyres on the hard roads. There was therefore a continual demand for bicycle tyres and these came floating down from the sky. Torch batteries lasted all too briefly and had to be replaced. One British agent got himself a job in a clothing factory which specialised in the making of underwater vests for the crews of U-boats. A brilliant and far-sighted idea occurred to him and he put through a demand to London for a supply of itching powder. It was delivered to him some days later. Before the vests were folded and packed, he sprinkled each one liberally with this powder. His theory was that submarines could not remain submerged for long if the tormented crew were forced to scratch themselves night and day. They would have to come up for air and a change of clothing and, once on the surface, would be vulnerable to attack. This wheeze (it is the right word, for surely itching powder belongs more to the dormitories of private schools than it does to the battlefield) fortunately worked. One submarine captain surrendered his craft and crew intact. He could no longer remain on the sea's bed, he said, owing to a mysterious epidemic of fleas compared with whose attacks the explosions of depth-charges were trifling. The connection between the award of the D.S.O. and a packet of itching powder may seem remote. Far from it indeed...

The Special Duty Squadrons, playing the role of Universal Uncles, ran what m
ight be termed a personal shopping service for agents. An intrepid, one-legged American lady, whose cool and gay courage was an example and an inspiration to all, sent a laconic request for certain Elizabeth Arden preparations as well as a new stump sock for her artificial leg. She stated her requirements exactly, giving the texture of her skin, the colour of her lipstick, the shade and scent of her powder and the address of her stump-sock suppliers. A Baker Street backroom girl did the shopping; 138 Squadron delivered the goods. The same backroom girl visited Peter Harrad's tailor, had a new battle dress altered to his measurements, sewed on his medal ribbons with meticulous care and arranged for the parcel to be dropped by parachute so that he could appear correctly dressed and in uniform the moment the area in which he worked should be liberated. The wearing of British uniform behind the enemy lines was a tremendous fillip to French morale. It was a living earnest of Britain's intention to invade. Major Havard Gunn was parachuted into the South of France some weeks before the landing of Allied troops. He dropped in Seaforth uniform - his kilt, he said, provided a small subsidiary parachute - and landed gracefully. Within an hour of his descent, he was sitting wrapped in a blanket in the kitchen of a French farmhouse. Madame was ironing the pleats of his kilt, Monsieur was polishing the buttons of his tunic while Mademoiselle plied him with conversation, melting glances and red wine. He moved freely among the Maquis, organising the future link-up between them and the invading forces. Though the Germans were thick in the area, no hint of the presence of a British officer in uniform - and in such a uniform! - ever reached their ears. The first columns of advancing Americans were flabbergasted to meet a tall officer in Highland dress strolling unconcernedly along the road where they imagined the Germans to be. He and his kilt took a lot of explaining away to those men from the Middle West.

From Universal Uncles to Father Christmas to bird fanciers. By special request of Her Majesty Queen Wilhelmina, sweets and chocolate were parachuted into Holland as a present from her and from the Dutch East Indies to her hungry people. Amongst other more
rarefied packages was a layette for twins. And there were those highly animate objects, carrier pigeons.

Considerable use was made of homing pigeons by friend and enemy alike and, at one time, to be found in possession of one was a reasonably certain passport to a firing squad. The employment of these engaging and interesting little messengers had only
been sanctioned after some sub-ministerial qualms.

Long before the First World War, Sir George Aston, then a junior Intelligence Officer, had had the temerity to suggest to some more senior friends in the War Office and in the Foreign Office that they, on his behalf, might put the carrier pigeon idea forward
. They were also to call the attention of the Admiralty officially to the courier potentialities of our feathered friends. The file proceeded on its leisurely course via ‘IN’, ‘PENDING’ and ‘OUT’ baskets and at last reached the desk of Grander Panjandrums. He clearly forgot, if indeed he ever knew, the part played by pigeons after the field of Waterloo when they bore home the news of Wellington's victory, which sent Britain's credit soaring and swelled the fortunes of their employers, the House of Rothschild. He read the bulky file with resistance and distaste. Who can say what small boy remembrances of his grandmother's parrot who called "Nothing today, Milkman" came into his mind? With the air of one whose time has been wasted and who is recording a foregone conclusion, he wrote the following: NO ACTION, THESE BIRDS MIGHT CARRY MISLEADING INFORMATION. Despite this initial rebuff, however, pigeons came to stay.

They were dropped by 138 Squadron in specially constructed crates to which were attached little parachutes. For the first time in their lives they floated down between heaven and earth other than by their own volition and those who came home seemed none the worse for what must have been a great psychological shock. There were many who failed to return and it was sadly assumed that they had, alas, got no further than the inside of an oven. These were hungry times and so delicious an addition to the menu was irresistible.

The dropping of propaganda leaflets was a regular device for masking the true purpose of delivery flights. A second aircraft, the sound of whose engines mingled with and became one with those of the real villain of the piece, would raid the area simultaneously, shedding exhortations to the local populace to eschew Hitler and all his works. By this method, the presence of aircraft overhead could be easily explained. On one occasion, however, this ruse carried a sting in its tail.

Owing to wind, weather and cloud, an aircraft loaded with supplies made a somewhat inaccurate drop. As the
dispatcher pushed out the real long-awaited packages, beguiling leaflets fluttered down from another decoy aircraft keeping station. Clearly number one had no idea as to how inaccurate he had been, or of the strength of the gusts. The packages fell over a wide area of thick scrub and trees. Some of them got caught up in high branches where they hung, swaying like felons on a gibbet. The number of packages was known to the men on the ground and every single one would have to be located. If even one were left
in
situ
, it would be mute evidence as to what had in fact been going on. The Gestapo would then close in, the village would be searched and the villagers interrogated as a preliminary to the seizing of hostages, followed by their torture and execution.

The pilot, having thought he had
done his job accurately and efficiently, turned for home. The reception committee took time off to run through all the picturesque oaths, and obscenities at their fluent command. Then they drew breath, formed into teams of scrub searchers or tree-climbers and began the quest. In the windy fleeting darkness, they played a desperate game of treasure hunting, with wireless sets, Sten guns, hand grenades and plastic explosives as the treasure. For hour after hour the game went on. One by one, the packages were retrieved, their coverings disposed of, their parachutes buried. When the parcels were counted, one was found to be missing. Though dawn was nigh and danger imminent, it could not be left. A last, combined, frantic effort was made, and the package at last seen dangling derisively from some high telephone wires. In travesty of a circus human pyramid, the men climbed on each other's backs and shoulders and, as the cocks were crowing the advent of day, dislodged the last reluctant contribution to victory.

Enfin
,
tout
était
au
pail
.

It was full daylight before they dispersed to make their separate ways to their separate homes. Red-eyed from lack of sleep and with each muscle
nursing a personal ache, they stumbled into their houses, buoyed up by the knowledge of a job well done. A cup of
ersatz
coffee, a quick gulp of brandy - a deep, satisfying lung-full of smoke from a black cigarette - and then sleep. Sleep, more than anything in the world, was what these men desired. They had hardly unlaced their boots before they heard the sound they least wanted to hear.

A heavy, peremptory knock on the door; the sound of a rifle butt against wood.

It was the Germans. All villagers, men, women and children, to parade before the doors of their houses and then to fall in in two lines after they had answered their names in a roll-call. Names were called and checked. Picquets were sent to fetch the aged, the infirm, the mutinous. "When we say 'everybody,'
Messieurs
et
Mesdames
, we mean everybody." Sullenly expecting the worst, the villagers waited in silence. The German major addressed them in his own tongue. His words were translated by the Mayor.

"At some hour l
ast night, the R.A.F., who are
salauds
and
de
La
canaille
- have dropped leaflets. They have fallen all over the fields. They are to be picked up and handed to the German
Kommandant
. If, when the task is reported as having been done, a single leaflet is found, the village will be punished. You are commanded to begin work at once and only to finish when the fields are clean."

The exhausted men were marched back to the ground they had so recently left. The scavenging lasted until nightfall. Long before the sun had reached its zenith the villagers had added their voices to those of the Germans in vilification of
le
sale
R.A.F.

The backroom boys worked unceasingly, inventing, testing, perfecting. As the war progressed and the tide turned majestically to victory, new devices were introduced. A means was sought whereby an aircraft in flight could communicate directly with those who waited on the ground. There were several urgent reasons for wanting this. Wireless telegraphy was uncertain and dangerous. It was uncertain because the sets were vulnerable and apt to break down. Their failure was usually of brief duration, for those who operated them were skilled radio mechanics and were cheerfully prepared to work all night at the job of restoration rather than cause anxiety in Baker Street by failing to come through at the exact moment of their allotted schedule. Silence could mean that the set and its operator had fallen into German hands. It was dangerous because radio detection vans were continuously on the prowl and the Gestapo became adept at isolating the houses from which betraying transmissions were made. There was always the risk that, under extremes of physical torture, the operator might give away his call-sign and code. The aircraft itself, its crew, passengers and supplies could be enticed into Tom Tiddler's - or rather, Adolf Hitler's - ground. The only absolute fool proof solution lay in communication by the human voice.

It was a long time a-
coming.

Chapter Eleven

DELIVERY BY AIR

The Special Duty Squadrons supplied men, women and weapons to every country in Europe that knew the dint of a Nazi heel. As has been written, they operated a shopping service for those in the field. They played the role of Father Christmas. Once, in the darkest days of conflict, they played another part, one which in its essentials belonged to peace rather than to war. The names of those involved,
as well as the date and the place have all been altered. But the story is true. It is the story of Pierre, Nicole and Nicolette.

Pierre was a farmer. His farm stood on the outskirts of a
village - let us call it ‘Fleuris’ - in the first foothills of the Jura mountains. A year before, he had married Nicole, daughter of another farmer. The wedding had taken place among subdued rejoicings for it was hard indeed to celebrate when the German occupation lay heavy on the brows of the French and a company of the Wehrmacht was stationed in the big house on the hill. With a week or two of the wedding, that company moved out and a new company moved in. This was under the command of Major Otto von Klingen, a firm, but not unkindly, man who in his heart regretted the grim necessities of war. As far as it was within his power, he made the occupation less rigorous and he came to believe that a measure of friendship between him and the villagers was not impossible. In this belief, he was wholly mistaken.

It was the early spring of 1944 and, for the French, a time of mounting hope. The Maquis, hidden in the thick woods of the mountains, were increasing in numbers. Arms, ammunition and supplies were being parachuted in from England and acts of sabotage becoming more and more frequent. As he took his morning march through the seemingly tranquil streets of Fleuris exchanging a formal "
Bonjour
" with those whom he recognised, Major von Klingen was completely unaware that there was hardly a house in the village that had not hidden somewhere within its walls weapons that were kept oiled and bright and ready.

During the first months of their marriage, Nicole worked with her husband on the farm. She drove the cows to the uplands in the mornings, taking great pleasure in the sight of the blossom as spring flowed down the hills and came to the apple and cherry orchards. During the day, she worked in the dairy, separating and churning, forever washing down. In the evenings, she helped with the milking, stripping the cows' udders with sensitive fingers. When the German soldiers spoke to her, she answered them fri
gidly. She was heavy-lidded, full-breasted, and had eyes for no one other than the man she had married. Soon, to her joy, she knew she was with child. As the weeks passed, she worked less strenuously. Only when the arrival of her baby was imminent did she take to her bed. From the beginning she had known of her husband's secret activity, knowing the danger, accepting it calmly. What he was doing was no less than the duty of a Frenchman. Pierre was in nightly wireless communication with Baker Street, London.

When Pierre looped his aerial over the branches of a wisteria and laid his thick farmer's fingers on the
Morse tappers, a small boy was always stationed at the gate of the muck yard. His job was to warn Pierre of the approach of any Germans. Up to now, they had never come.

A Gestapo radio detection van moved unobtrusively into the area. It was controlled by Captain Greisenau, a thin, tight-lipped man with alert, snake-cold eyes. With ear phones clamped to his head, he listened, pin-pointed, isolated. A converging circle of armed soldiers closed in on the farm-house. The small boy's warning came just in time. Pierre whipped down his aerial, thrust his radio set into Nic
ole's bed and regained the farmhouse kitchen just as the inevitable, thunderous knock sounded on the door.

Under the direction of Captain Greisenau, the farm and its out-buildings were searched. The soldiers went over every inch of the attic, the living room, the dairy. Th
ey opened cupboards and drawers; they explored the cellar and the wine-bins. Nothing was found. At last Captain Greisenau stopped outside a closed oak door.

"What is this room?"

"It is our bedroom, my wife's and mine. She is in bed, expecting a baby. I would consider it a courtesy on your part, Monsieur, if she were left undisturbed."

"Open the door at once."

Pierre shrugged. He said slowly: "As you say."

Again cupboards were opened, clothes thrown out of drawers. Nicole lay in bed, not looking at the soldiers. Her eyes were closed and she was praying in silence. The search was fruitless. But Captain Greisenau's eyes and ears were acute. They missed neither the slight relaxation of Pierre's taut features as the soldiers trooped to the door nor did they miss the involuntary sigh of relief from Nicole. He strode towards the bed. With a sudden movement, he jerked the huge, billowing eiderdown back. He saw what he saw. For a long moment, there was silence. Then he said in execrable French, smiling at his own wit:

"Madame bears strange children."

The travesty of a Military Court was held. Major von Klingen was very proper, very formal. The whole affair caused him deep distress because he
had come to like Pierre. Also, pure practicality would question who would now supply the Officers' Mess with milk. Captain Greisenau, on the other hand, was brimming with triumph. He appointed himself Clerk of the Court, Prosecuting Officer, Chief Witness for the Prosecution and Judge. He would gladly have undertaken the role of executioner as well but that was to be denied him. The proceedings were brief and the sentences inevitable. For the accused Pierre, it was death by shooting, and for the accused Nicole (sentenced
in
absentia), transportation to the Reich, to Ravensbriick Concentration Camp for Women.

Grudgingly, Captain Greisenau allowed himself to be persuaded to defer the execution of Pierre's sentence until dawn. It was, said Major von
Klingen coldly, the traditional hour for such unhappy events to take place. Equally grudgingly, he agreed that the convicted woman Nicole should remain where she was until such time as she had been delivered of her child. Were she to be sent away at once, it was more than likely that she would bear her brat in a cattle truck en route for Ravensbriick and that would present administrative difficulties with which he did not wish to be bothered. In the meantime, she should be guarded night and day.

Heil Hitler!

The news of this calamity spread like a petrol fire about the village of Fleuris. The small boy, he who had first given warning of the Germans' approach, strolled with seeming innocence along the narrow road that led to the wooded hills. Once out of sight of the last house, he began to run. He was very small in the vast, thick countryside. His mission was of the greatest urgency and there was not a minute to be lost. In a short space of time, he was breathlessly telling the story of the morning's happenings to a slight, thin-faced man who squatted on a felled pine and smoked incessantly.

Xavier, leader of the Maquis, was a man of action. Within his head he had a map and, while the boy gabbled, he was mentally considering and rejecting a succession of flat fields. Sometimes the Germans came and dug trenches or erected stakes in the night and what had looked like a safe landi
ng place at dusk became a death trap by dawn. There was only one way to make sure - to have a last minute look at the ground. He gave instructions to one of his lieutenants and the man set off. He was back within the hour. The field was flat and unscarred, but it was woefully small. One might be able to put down a Lysander on it, if the pilot was skilled and prepared to take risks.
Enfin
, the R.A.F. were always ready to take a chance. Xavier wrote a message swiftly and gave it to his wireless officer for coding and transmission to London. It asked for a Lysander pick-up that very night on the field whose exact map reference he gave. It was a matter of the greatest importance. There would be two passengers. If the operation was on, the
message
personnel
on the French news of the B.B.C. should be ‘
A
playmate
for
our
Little
Lord
’.

The next task, far the hardest, was to spring Pierre out of prison. Xavier decided on a bold and audacious plan. He told as much of it as necessary to the little boy who, by virtue of his youth, would have access to the distracted Nicole. The little boy frowned in bewilderment.

"But if I tell Madame this, she will consider me an imbecile. All the world knows that she and Pierre are-"

"All the world may know
- but not Major von Klingen. Go quickly and do as you are told."

The little boy trotted off, a tiny link in a chain. Surrounded by his staff, Xavier lit a cigarette from the red stub of his last one.

"The time has come," he said, "to do battle with the Boche. We have Sten guns, ammunition and hand-grenades in plenty. Tonight we will smoke the Germans out of Fleuris. This is my plan."

He explained it. There were many chuckles among these hard and eager mountaineers but Xavier's mouth was unsmiling.

"You may not find it so humorous tonight when we strike. The Boche are not without weapons also." He spread out a map. "Now these are my battle orders. You, Jacques, will approach silently from the east of the village with your platoon. You will station your men here, here and here, covering this road with crossfire. You, Paul, will come in by the orchard below the mill, ready to converge ..." For some minutes, he gave his orders clearly and authoritatively. At the end, he asked for questions. There were none. He looked around. "You all know exactly what you have to do. See that there are no mistakes." For the first time, a sardonic, wolfish grin twisted his lips. "Now I go to play
my
role.
A
bient6t
." Unarmed, the grim smile still on his mouth, he walked through the pines towards the village of Fleuris.

At the headquarters of Special Operations Executive in Baker Street, Xavier's message was considered as being one of high priority. The operations for that night had already been planned and it would be difficult indeed to mount yet another one. On the other hand, Xavier was known to be a man of the greatest integrity who would not ask for a pick-up at the last moment if the matter were not desperate. A map of the area was studied and the reference checked. The officers scratched their heads. To put a Lysander down on that tiny, hill-fold space would require skilful hands and a stout heart. But the very difficulty emphasised Xavier's need. Here the strong personal trust between those in Baker Street and those in the field became apparent. It was decided to mount the operation. The whole elaborate machinery was set in motion and the French Section of the B.B.C. warned to await confirmation of a probable code message which would read:

"
A playmate
for
our
Little
Lord
."

At Tempsford, a pilot was picked and brief
ed. Squadron Leader Northcote (whose name was not this) had done many Lysander jobs and was due for leave. He grumbled a little and rang up one or two popsies to cancel appointments. Then he began meticulously to study the map.

This was not,
repeat
not
, going to be even a crumb of cake.

Xavier came by circuitous woodland paths into the village of Fleuris. Those of the villagers who saw him looked at him askance for they knew who he was and they marvelled at his daring. He wore a preoccupied look and walked as a man might look who had weighty matters on his mind. Courteously, he touched his beret to the German sentries stationed at the street corners. They let him pass, surprised that any Frenchman should give them greeting. He went to the house of Father Jean,
Curé
of the village. The door was opened by Marie-Louise, the priest's fat and frightened housekeeper. Her face blanched at the sight of her visitor and she gasped for breath.

"Control yourself, woman. A word with
Monsieur
le Curé
, please, on an affair of urgency."

"That you, of all people, should come at a time like this."

"It is because of that that I come. Please inform the good Father than I am here."

Only too well did Xavier know the simple workings of the simple priest's mind and that this matter could only properly be approached a
fter the preliminaries of confession. He tapped with his foot on the floor, whistling between his teeth, sorting out a few sins from his considerable selection; minor sins that would be subject to swift absolution. The priest's voice spoke from the door.

''You come at an evil time, my son."

"I have come for two things, Father The first," he said slyly, "to confess my sins."

The priest sighed. He was an old man and he was deeply troubled. He lifted one hand, let it fall. His heart was heavy at the thought of the dawn.

"Come to the church."

Together the two men walked to the church. It was hollow and echoing in the sunny afternoon and smelled of incense and disinfectant. To Xavier, it was a forgotten, sharply remembered smell. He stood by the confession box while the old priest walked into the sacristy. He reappeared, adjusting his stole, and went to the altar rails and knelt in prayer. He took an unconscionable time and Xavier fretted as the minutes crawled by. At long last, the priest rose, genuflected and walked to the box. Xavier saw a glimmer of light and entered the box. The hatch slid open.